The morning light filters through the glass windows. Aiah stands at the altar, her hands resting on the bouquet Maloi forced into them an hour ago, and she can feel the weight of every eye in the church pressing against her back. The white gown Stacey chose hugs her frame in all the right places, the fabric cool against her skin, and she thinks, distantly, that she has never felt more like a painting than she does right now. A painting waiting for someone to come admire it.

Thirty minutes. She counts them in her head the way other people count anything. Thirty minutes since the ceremony was supposed to start. Thirty minutes of whispered speculation rippling through the pews behind her, the kind of murmurs that are meant to be discreet but carry anyway.

She doesn’t turn around. She keeps her eyes on the altar, on the simple white cloth and the silver candlesticks, and she lets her face settle into the calm she has perfected over years of boardroom battles. This is just another negotiation, she tells herself. The other party is late. It happens.

Behind her, she hears Maloi's voice cutting through the murmur of the guests. "I swear to God, Staku, if that woman doesn't show up in the next five minutes, I'm going to find her myself and drag her here by that ridiculous red hair."

"You and me both," Stacey replies, her voice equally tight. "I didn't spend seventy days planning this wedding for her to make Aiah wait like this."

Aiah's lips twitch. She loves them for this. For the way they circle her like guard dogs, ready to tear apart anyone who dares to hurt her.

The officiant clears his throat. Aiah glances at him, sees him checking his wristwatch for what must be the tenth time in the last five minutes. He looks uncomfortable, caught between professionalism and the obvious awkwardness of a bride left waiting at the altar.

Aiah offers him a small, apologetic smile. "She'll come," she says, her voice soft and steady. "She has to."

The officiant nods, looking relieved. He turns back to his notes, fussing with the pages.

Aiah looks behind her and does a quick glance at the guests. She recognizes most of them. Her parents' and Lim’s closest business associates, a few faces she's seen at charity galas and corporate events. And there, in the front row, her mother and father, sitting side by side, their hands intertwined.

Her mother's eyes meet hers, and Aiah sees the worry there. The same worry that has been in her mother's eyes since the night she agreed to this marriage. Aiah gives her a small, reassuring nod. 

I'm fine, Ma. This is what I chose.

Her father offers her a weak smile, and Aiah's heart aches, just a little. She knows this is hard for him. She knows he carries the weight of the debt to the Lims like a physical burden, and she knows he hates that she is the one paying it off. But she also knows he understands. He taught her the value of loyalty. He taught her that some debts are not measured in money.

She looks away, her eyes finding the side pews where Mikha's family sits. Mrs. Lim is there, her face pale and pinched with worry, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Beside her, Mr. Lim sits with a carefully neutral expression, the kind of face he wears in boardrooms when he is waiting for a deal to close. Behind them, Mikha's siblings sit in a row, their faces a mix of embarrassment and resignation, as if they have been through this too many times to be surprised anymore.

And then there are the other guests. Aiah recognizes a few of them from the business pages, and she knows that Jhoanna's family, Robles Media, is the only one covering this wedding. A deliberate choice, she suspects. A way to control the narrative. A way to make sure that when the story of this wedding is told, it is told on their terms.

The door at the back of the church creaks open, and Aiah feels the shift in the air before she hears the gasp. The murmurs stop, replaced by a sudden, expectant silence. She turns around fully, slowly, and there she is.

Mikha stands in the doorway, held upright by Jhoanna on one side and Colet on the other. Mikha is drunk. There's no other word for it. Her dark navy suit is disheveled, the tie loose around her neck, the shirt untucked on one side. Her eyes are glassy, unfocused, and she sways on her feet as she takes in the church, the guests, the altar. But her hair is perfect. That ridiculous red hair, slicked back and gleaming under the light, like she made sure that one part of her appearance was flawless before she let herself fall apart.

Aiah watches her, her face carefully blank, and she feels something stir in her chest. Not anger. Not disappointment. Something closer to curiosity. She knew this would happen. She had expected it. And still, seeing Mikha like this, seeing the chaos she brings with her like a storm cloud, Aiah can't help but wonder what is going on behind those glassy eyes.

"She's drunk." Stacey hisses. "She's drunk at her own wedding."

"I'm going to kill her," Maloi says again, but there's no heat in it now. Just exhaustion. Just the weight of knowing they cannot stop this.

Hazel rises from her seat and hurries down the aisle toward her daughter, her heels clicking against the marble floor. She reaches Mikha, reaches for her arm, and Aiah watches the way Mikha flinches away from her mother's touch—a small, violent movement that makes Jhoanna tighten her grip.

"Mom." Mikha slurs, loud enough for the first few pews to hear. "You're embarrassing me."

"You're embarrassing yourself." Hazel's voice is soft but sharp, the voice of a woman who has said this many times. "Walk properly. You're getting married today."

Mikha laughs. It's an ugly sound, ragged and mean. She pulls away from Jhoanna and Colet, sways for a moment, and then finds her footing. She straightens her jacket with two fingers, adjusts her tie with the other hand, and starts walking down the aisle.

She walks like she owns the church. Like she owns every person in it. Her steps are careful—the walk of someone who has learned to move drunk, who has had years of practice. The smirk on her face is a signature. Aiah watches her come and feels nothing. Or feels everything and names it nothing. She can't tell anymore.

Mikha reaches the altar and stops. She stands beside Aiah, close enough that Aiah can smell the whiskey on her. Mikha looks at her, looks at the white gown, looks at the bouquet, and her smirk widens.

"White," she says, low enough that only Aiah can hear. "Bold choice for someone who's about to be tainted."

Aiah doesn’t react. She keeps her face smooth, her eyes forward.

The officiant clears his throat, looking between them nervously. "If we could begin?"

Aiah nods. "Please."

The ceremony is a blur of words and gestures. Aiah stands still as the officiant speaks about love and commitment and the sanctity of marriage. She hears the words, but they don't land. They feel like they're meant for someone else, some other couple, some other life where this was a love match and not a business arrangement.

Mikha, for her part, treats the whole thing like a joke. She slouches, she rolls her eyes, she lets out a loud, theatrical yawn when the officiant mentions the importance of patience in a marriage.

When the officiant asks if anyone objects, Mikha snorts. It's loud enough to carry. Jhoanna, standing in the front pew with Colet, closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. Aiah hears Maloi mutter something under her breath that she's glad she can't quite catch.

"You may now exchange vows."

Mikha turns to face Aiah fully. For a moment— just a moment—the smirk falters. Something flickers in her dark eyes, something that might be exhaustion or might be anger or might be nothing at all.

Then she steps closer and takes Aiah's hands in hers. Her fingers are warm and slightly rough, calloused in places Aiah doesn't expect. She leans in, her lips brushing Aiah's ear, her breath warm.

"My vow," Mikha whispers, "is to ruin your life."

Aiah doesn’t flinch. She does not pull away. She just stands there, hands held by the woman who hates her, and waits.

"You have all the time in the world to try,” she whispers back, her voice is just as low, just as steady.

Mikha pulls back. The smirk returns, but it's different now. Sharper. More interested. She releases Aiah's hands and steps back to her place.

The officiant turns to Mikha. "Do you, Mikha Lim, take Aiah Arceta to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I do." The words are quick, mocking, dripping with insincerity.

The officiant turns to Aiah. "And do you, Aiah Arceta, take Mikha Lim to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

Aiah looks at Mikha. Really looks at her—at the sharp jawline, the pale skin, the red hair that defies every convention. She looks at the woman who signed a document under duress, who showed up drunk to her own wedding, who promised to ruin a life Aiah doesn't even care about anymore.

"I do."

The officiant looks behind Aiah. "The rings?"

Maloi appears at Aiah's side, holding out a small velvet pillow with two rings. She glares at Mikha as she does it, and Aiah can practically hear the curses her friend is biting back. Aiah takes one ring, a simple gold band, and Mikha takes the other.

Aiah's hands are steady as she slides the band onto Mikha's finger. Mikha's hands, she notices, are not. They tremble, just slightly. Mikha fumbles the ring, nearly drops it, catches it at the last second with a muttered curse. The officiant pretends not to notice.

"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you married."

There is a pause. The church holds its breath. Mikha looks at Aiah, and Aiah looks back, and neither of them moves.

They don’t kiss.

The officiant clears his throat. "You may... sign the register."

The guests break into applause. It's not enthusiastic applause. It's polite, uncertain, the kind of applause you give when you're not sure what just happened but you know you're supposed to clap anyway.

The signing is quick. Aiah signs her name in neat, precise strokes. Mikha scrawls hers, the letters barely legible.

The pictures are worse. Aiah smiles for the cameras, a practiced, diplomatic smile. Mikha doesn't bother. She just stands there, looking like she'd rather be anywhere else in the world. Aiah catches a glimpse of the image on the screen: two women standing side by side, dressed in white and navy, strangers who happened to share a frame.

Then it's over. The officiant closes his book with a soft thud. Aiah feels something settle in her chest. A finality. A door closing.

The guests begin to rise, and Mikha doesn't wait. She turns, almost stumbling, and Jhoanna and Colet are there to catch her, to steady her, to guide her back down the aisle. Aiah watches them, her face unreadable.

Jhoanna glances back, and for a moment, their eyes meet. Aiah sees the apology there, the sympathy, and she gives Jhoanna a small, genuine smile. Jhoanna smiles back softly—that warm, familiar smile that Aiah remembers from years ago, from dinners, karaoke nights, and conversations she's mostly forgotten at Stacey’s house. They were close once, before everything, before the corporate world and the lines drawn in the sand. She miss Jhoanna's loud mouth, her quick wit, the way she could make anyone laugh even in the darkest of rooms.

Colet meets her eyes too, and Aiah offers her a small smile as well. Colet gives a tiny nod. She doesn't know Colet well, but she's always felt like Colet is a good person, despite what Maloi says. There's something steady about her, something reliable. Aiah appreciates that.

Jhoanna and Colet turn, following Mikha out of the church. 

Aiah watches them go. Then she turns, walking down the aisle toward her parents.

Her mother rises to meet her, her eyes glistening. "Aiah," she says, her voice thick. "Anak ko."

Aiah reaches out, taking her mother's hands. "I'm fine, Mama," she says softly.

Her mother shakes her head, but she doesn't argue. She just pulls Aiah into a hug, holding her tight, and Aiah lets herself sink into it for just a moment. Then she pulls back, kissing her mother's cheek, and turns to her father.

He looks at her with an expression she can't quite read. Pride, maybe. Guilt. Love. "You didn't have to do this," he says quietly.

"I know," Aiah says. "But I wanted to."

She kisses his cheek too, then turns, walking toward Mikha's parents.

Mrs. Lim is waiting for her, with Mr. Lim beside her. The older woman's eyes are red-rimmed, but she holds herself together, and when Aiah approaches, she opens her arms and folds Aiah into a hug that speaks like grief.

"Thank you," Hazel whispers into Aiah's hair. "Thank you for doing this."

Aiah doesn't know what to say to that. She pats Hazel's back gently, feels the older woman's shoulders shake, and when Hubert clears his throat, Hazel pulls away and dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief.

"We'll take care of everything," Hubert says, his voice gruff, his eyes not quite meeting Aiah's. "The reception, the media, all of it. You just... enjoy your day."

Aiah nods. She doesn't say that there is nothing to enjoy. She doesn't say that she feels like she just signed a contract she hasn't fully read. She just nods, and smiles, and turns to find Maloi and Stacey waiting by the side door, their faces twin storms of fury and concern. She walks toward them.

"I'm going to kill her," Maloi says, her voice flat. "I'm going to find her and I'm going to kill her."

"Not before I do," Stacey adds.

Aiah smiles, a real smile this time. She reaches out, pulling both of them into a hug.

"Calm down," she murmurs. "Both of you. We still have a reception to finish."

Maloi huffs against her shoulder. "I can't believe you're not even angry."

Aiah pulls back, looking at her friends. "Angry doesn't help."

Stacey shakes her head. "You're too good for her. You know that, right?"

"She signed the paper. That's all that matters," Aiah says, gentle but final.

Stacey and Maloi exchange a look—the look of two people who have known Aiah their whole lives and can see right through her. But they don't argue. They just nod. Maloi squeezes Aiah's hand, and Stacey adjusts the strap of her dress.

"Fine," Maloi says. "But I'm sitting at the bar all night."

"The bar isn't open yet."

"Ako magbubukas. I'll serve myself too."

Aiah laughs softly. She looks around the church one more time—at the pews now empty, at the altar where she became someone's wife.

"Come on," she says. "The reception isn't going to host itself."

~~

The reception hall is everything Aiah expected it to be. White orchids cascading down every pillar, gold chairs arranged in perfect rows, a stage draped in silk at the far end. The kind of wedding reception that costs more than most people's homes and feels like nothing at all. She walks through it with a smile fixed on her face, stopping at each table to accept congratulations from people who have never spoken to her before tonight.

"Congratulations, Aiah." A man in a gray suit shakes her hand, his grip too firm, his smile too wide. "The Lims are lucky to have you."

"Thank you," she says, and moves on before he can say anything else.

She does this for an hour. Table after table, handshake after handshake, the same words in different voices. She catches glimpses of Mikha at the bar across the room, a glass of whiskey in her hand, her tie now completely undone and hanging loose around her neck. Mikha doesn't look at her. Mikha doesn't look at anyone. She just drinks, and the bartender keeps the bottle close.

The host's voice cuts through the murmur of the crowd. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, let us welcome the newlyweds to the stage!"

Aiah's smile doesn't waver. She walks toward the stage, and she feels the weight of every eye follow her. She climbs the three steps and settles onto the two-seater couch in the middle of the stage, arranging her gown around her with practiced ease.

Mikha doesn't move from the bar.

The host laughs, a nervous sound. "Mikha, darling, come on up here!"

Mikha takes a slow sip of her whiskey. Then another. Then she sets the glass down and walks toward the stage. She climbs the steps, drops onto the couch beside Aiah, and immediately slouches, one arm draped over the back of the couch, her body angled away.

The host claps her hands together. "Beautiful! Now, we have some very special people here tonight who will share a few words with our lovely couple. First up, the maid of honors, Maloi Ricalde and Stacey Sevilleja!"

Maloi walks up the steps, a microphone in her hand, her dress a deep emerald that catches the light. She looks at Aiah, and her face softens. When she speaks, her voice is warm, steady, and completely different from the fury Aiah heard at the church.

"I've known Aiah since we were babies," Maloi says, looking out at the crowd. "And I've never met anyone who works harder, cares deeper, or gives more of herself than she does. She's the kind of friend who shows up at your door at two in the morning with ice cream and doesn't ask any questions. She's the kind of person who remembers the little things—your favorite food, the song you loved in high school, the name of the dog you had when you were seven."

Maloi pauses, her eyes glistening. "Aiah, I know this isn't the fairy tale you imagined. But I know you. And whatever comes next, you're going to face it with that quiet strength you've always had. I'm so proud of you. I love you so much."

Aiah's throat tightens. She blinks, hard, and manages a smile.

Maloi walks to Aiah, leans down, and presses a kiss to her cheek. Her lips brush Aiah's ear, and she whispers, "If she hurts you, I'll kill her. I'm not joking."

Mikha lets out a low chuckle from beside Aiah. She heard. Of course she heard.

Maloi pulls back, her eyes still on Aiah. "I love you," she says, soft enough that only Aiah can hear.

"I love you," Aiah whispers back.

Maloi hands the microphone to Stacey, who is already climbing the steps. Stacey's dress is a sleek black, her pink hair pulled back in a low bun, and she looks every inch the CEO she is. She takes the mic, looks at Aiah, and smiles.

"I'm not going to make this long," Stacey says. "Aiah, you're the most stubborn person I've ever met. And I mean that as a compliment. You don't back down from anything. You don't give up on anyone. And you have this way of making everyone around you feel like they can do anything."

She pauses, her voice dropping just slightly. "So I'm not worried about you. I know you're going to be fine. But if you ever need me—and I mean for anything—I'm one phone call away."

Aiah mouths the words, I love you.

Stacey walks to Aiah, kisses her cheek, and before she turns, her eyes narrow at Mikha. It's quick, barely a flicker, but Aiah sees it. Stacey's glare is a promise, sharp and silent, then she descends the steps and returns to her seat.

The host's voice rings out again. "And now, from the other side, the best women—Colet Vergara and Jhoanna Robles!"

Mikha groans, loud enough for the first few rows to hear. Aiah sees Jhoanna grinning as she and Colet make their way up the steps.

Colet takes the microphone first. She stands there, her face completely straight, her wolf-cut hair framing her sharp features, and she looks at the Mikha like she's about to deliver a quarterly report.

"Mikha," Colet starts. "When you told me you were getting married, I laughed. I thought you were joking. You're not funny, so I knew you weren't joking, which made it worse."

A few people in the crowd chuckle. Mikha's jaw tightens.

"But here we are," Colet continues. "You're married. To a woman who looks like she could run a country, by the way. So here's my advice: behave. Don't mess this up. Because if you do, I'm not bailing you out this time."

Colet turns to Aiah, and her voice softens, just a fraction. "Aiah, I don't know you well. But I know Mikha. And I know that underneath all the chaos, there's someone worth fighting for."

Aiah's smile is genuine. She nods, a small, grateful movement. Colet returns the gesture, a tiny nod of her own, before handing the microphone to Jhoanna.

Jhoanna takes it, adjusts her glasses, and grins. "Okay, so. Mikha. My best friend. The person who once stole my car and drove to Baguio at three in the morning because she was bored."

Mikha's lips twitch.

"She's a nightmare," Jhoanna says, and the crowd laughs. "She's a walking disaster. She once got us banned from a five-star hotel in Singapore because she threw a shoe at a chandelier. I'm not even sure why. She said it was looking at her funny."

Jhoanna pauses, her grin softening. "But she's also the most loyal person I know. She'd do anything for the people she loves. She just has a weird way of showing it."

She turns to Aiah, and her voice drops, losing some of its playfulness. "Aiah, I know this isn't how you imagined your wedding day. But I want you to know—Mikha is worth it. She's worth the patience, the effort, the time. And I think—I hope—you'll see that."

Aiah meets Jhoanna's eyes. "Thank you," she says softly.

Jhoanna smiles. "And if she ever gives you trouble, you call me. I'll handle it."

The host claps her hands. "Wonderful! Now, can we get the maid of honors and the best women to stay on stage? We want a picture of the whole wedding party!"

Maloi and Stacey climb back up the steps, their faces carefully neutral. The host arranges them behind the couch—Maloi and Stacey in the middle, Colet and Jhoanna on each side. The four of them stand rigidly, like soldiers who have been told to pose for a photo they didn't want to be in.

The photographer raises his camera. "Everyone, say cheese!"

Aiah hears Maloi hiss under her breath. "Don't stand so close to me."

Colet's voice is equally low, equally sharp. "I'm not even touching you."

"You're breathing on me."

"That's how breathing works."

Aiah's lips twitch. She hears Stacey's voice next, clipped and cold. "Jhoanna. Step back."

"I'm not that close."

"I said step back."

The camera clicks, and Aiah is smiling wide, a real smile that she can't help because she thinks about her friends' scowl face behind her. She knows how it looks—her eyes crinkled, her cheeks lifted, her whole face bright. And beside her, Mikha sits with her arms crossed, her jaw set, looking like she'd rather be anywhere else on earth.

"Beautiful!" the photographer says. "One more!"

This time, Aiah hears Maloi's sharp whisper: "I will plant this heel at your head, Vergara."

"I'd like to see you try."

The camera clicks again. Aiah's smile is even wider now, and she knows it's because she's holding back a laugh. She can feel Mikha's eyes on her, a flicker of curiosity, maybe, before Mikha looks away.

The photographer lowers his camera. "Perfect!"

Mikha stands up immediately without a word. She walks down the steps, heading straight for the bar. Aiah watches her go, then rises from the couch, taking Maloi's offered hand as she descends the steps.

"Are you okay?" Maloi asks quietly.

"I'm fine," Aiah says. "Really."

Stacey appears on her other side, her hand on Aiah's elbow, steering her gently through the crowd. "You're doing great. Just a few more hours."

"I've survived worse."

The night continues. Aiah circulates, shaking hands, accepting congratulations, smiling until her face aches. She loses track of time, loses track of the number of times she says "thank you," loses track of everything except the mechanical rhythm of it all.

By the time the hall has emptied—only a few stragglers left, finishing their drinks, saying their goodbyes—Aiah's feet are screaming, and she can't feel her legs anymore. She leans against a pillar, just for a moment, and lets her eyes close.

"You look like you're about to collapse."

Aiah opens her eyes. Maloi is standing in front of her, holding a glass of water.

"I feel like I'm about to collapse." Aiah admits, taking the glass.

"The car's here," Stacey says, appearing beside Maloi. "We'll walk you out."

They guide her through the empty hall, out the doors, into the cool night air. The service car is waiting at the curb. Aiah takes a deep breath.

This is it.

"Take care of yourself," Maloi says, pulling Aiah into a hug. "We'll visit if our schedules permit."

"And call us if she lays a hand on you," Stacey adds, her voice hard. "I don't care what time it is."

Aiah laughs, a soft, tired sound. "I will. Thank you. Both of you. For everything."

She kisses Maloi's cheek, then Stacey's, and pulls back. Over their shoulders, she sees Colet and Jhoanna guiding Mikha toward the car. Mikha is barely standing now, her head lolling, her feet dragging. Colet has one arm around her waist, Jhoanna has the other, and they're both cursing at her in low, exasperated voices.

"I told you not to drink that much," Colet mutters.

"Shut up," Mikha slurs. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You can't even walk."

"I can walk." Mikha tries to prove it by taking a step on her own. She stumbles immediately, and Jhoanna catches her.

"Yeah. Real convincing," Jhoanna says dryly.

They manage to get Mikha into the car, folding her into the back seat. Colet straightens her jacket, and Jhoanna runs a hand through her hair, looking exhausted.

Aiah walks over to them. "Thank you."

Colet nods, a small, tired smile on her face.

Jhoanna looks at Aiah, her eyes soft behind her glasses. She sighs, a long, heavy sound. "Can I get a hug?"

Aiah blinks, surprised. She glances at Stacey, who is standing by the car, watching. Jhoanna follows her gaze.

"She's my friend too, Stacey,” Jhoanna says, her voice gentle. “She always has been."

Stacey doesn't say anything. She looks away, her jaw tight, her eyes fixed on some point in the distance.

Aiah studies Stacey's face. She knows her well enough—knows the set of her shoulders, the way she looks anywhere but at Jhoanna when things get heavy. And she knows, with a certainty that settles in her chest, that it's okay. Because if not, Stacey would’ve unleashed a series of disapproval words by now.

Aiah steps forward and pulls Jhoanna into a hug.

Jhoanna holds her tight, her arms wrapping around Aiah's shoulders, and her voice is a whisper against Aiah's ear.

"Take care of her, Aiah. She's not a bad person. She's just... lost."

Aiah nods against Jhoanna's shoulder. "I know."

"I missed you," Jhoanna says quietly. "I miss us. The way we used to be."

Aiah's throat tightens. "I missed you too."

She feels a third pair of arms wrap around them both, and she looks up to see Maloi joining the hug, her face pressed against Jhoanna's shoulder. Maloi's eyes are on Stacey, watching her, checking—and whatever she sees there makes her stay.

They pull back after a moment. Jhoanna blinks, hard, and her eyes are glistening. She clears her throat, straightens her glasses, and turns to Stacey. "Can you drive home?"

Stacey rolls her eyes. She doesn't answer. She just walks to the car and gets in, slamming the door behind her.

Aiah watches Jhoanna's face. There's a sadness there, a quiet ache that Jhoanna tries to hide with a smile. She looks at Stacey the way someone looks at a door they know is locked. Aiah sees it, and she understands, with a sudden, sharp clarity, that Jhoanna still loves her friend.

She doesn't say anything. She just gives Jhoanna one last smile and steps into the car.